


'Til Your Heart Goes Numb

by 1833outboy (phancon)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Car Accidents, Cemetery, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 13:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/pseuds/1833outboy
Summary: The aching hole he’s constantly trying to escape is all consuming and ravenous. If he squints, he can make out printed photographs on the fridge; hat, glasses, grinning faces. Pete closes his eyes and makes a wish to any entity that might hear him.Then he hears the distant twang of guitar strings.





	'Til Your Heart Goes Numb

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was very difficult to write for a lot of reasons, the main one being writer's block. but finally, it is done.

 

Pete’s hands shake. It’s not a big deal.

It’s the reason he drinks. One of the reasons. One of the reasons he’s in a dirty bar this evening, one of the reasons he hopes he’ll be in this bar until it closes in the early hours of the morning. The lumpy worn leather of the barstool under his ass is as uncomfortable, and the bar is sticky and mucking the sleeves of his jacket. Pete barely notices.

His eyes stay on the reflective glass of destructive bottles behind the bar as he pushes another empty glass toward the bartender, a man who Pete has learned (through the conversations of the other regulars, not through any inferring of his own) goes by the name Toby. The empty glass is picked up and exchanged for a full one, eyes of a man overworked and wary on Pete as he takes it without thanks. Toby moves away, too familiar with Pete by now to think that small talk is an option. 

Around him, the bar is quiet. A couple of men in suits laugh at a table in the corner after a long day at work, an older woman is half asleep several feet away from Pete, an elderly couple talk quietly at a table nearby.

Pete drinks. And his hands shake less.

But his whole body jolts when he feels a hand on his shoulder, the wild primal urge to buck it off coming full force until he turns and sees whose hand it belongs to. Painful bright blue eyes, pale face, wild brown curls; Joe sits down in the barstool beside Pete.

“Hey,” Joe says, watching Pete’s hands squeeze around his almost empty glass. Pete says nothing; he takes another sip. “How’ve you… been?”

Pete snorts. He runs a hand through his matted hair. It’s a greasy mess of thick curls he’s hasn’t touched – besides for the occasional forced shower – in… a long time.

“Yeah,” Joe mutters. “Me too.”

Pete’s grip tightens around his drink and he knocks all of it back. Joe sounds like a man who thinks he knows how Pete feels. Fuck that. Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

Joe winces. Pete stares at the bottom of his now empty glass, but he feels the grimace. Joe says softly, wounded, “You’re not the only one hurting.” He pauses, and only when Pete looks up at him does he barrel on like a mad man who knows just the wrong thing to say, “You can’t _keep_ blaming yourself—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Pete interrupts, sharp, harsh. “About that.”

As he turns back to his glass, he feels Joe nod. “Sorry.”

There’s a quiet that settles between them, the only noise the gentle voices of the other bar goers. Pete’s glass is still empty, and he tries in vain hope to get the attention of Toby, but he’s serving the men in suits at the far end of the bar.

“So, I, uh. I’ve been going to therapy,” says Joe after a few minutes. Pete does not want to hear about that, but Joe goes on, “I think it’s helped. I mean… I’ve stopped having as many nightmares.”

The _I don’t care_ is bitter on the back of Pete’s tongue, but Toby finally comes over to refill his glass before he can spit it out.

Joe orders a beer, which Toby places in front of him without comment, then goes on, “It could help you too. Seeing someone. Talking about it.”

“No,” says Pete, swallowing down something more vicious he wants to say. He knows he should be nice to Joe. Joe is his friend. Joe knows (almost) everything that happened. Joe is trying to help. Joe should stop.

Joe sighs, then places a hand over Pete’s wrist. Pete wants to throw it off, but he likes the warmth of the touch. “I think you should. Patri—”

“ _No_ ,” Pete spits immediately, pulling his arm away from under Joe’s hand and instantly resenting the cold. He knocks back his drink in several long gulps, drops too many notes onto the bar and stands up, swaying on unsteady feet as he heads toward the door. “I’m leaving.” It’s too early, but Joe’s ruined it. 

“Pete, wait,” Joe quickly gets to his feet, leaving his bottle almost full and hurrying after Pete. “Let me give you a ride.”

“No, thanks,” says Pete, stepping into the icy air outside. He clenches his fists against the cold, hunching his shoulders in his thin jacket. Winter has come early the last few weeks, snow forecast to settle in the morning. There’ll be a heavy frost.

“Dude, you can’t walk in this,” Joe insists. “You’ll freeze.”

“Bye, Joe,” Pete says, turning to leave. There’s warmth on his shoulder in the shape of Joe’s palm that he flings off immediately. His breath comes out like smoke. “ _Goodbye_ , Joe.”

The hand comes back. “Fuck’s sake, Pete, I’m your friend, just let me—”

There’s an awful thump of bone on skin as Pete’s fist connects with Joe’s cheek. It’s not hard. Not as hard as he’s punched others lately – strangers and ex-friends who tried too hard to talk to him when he didn’t want to be talked to. But it’s hard enough to knock Joe back onto his ass, rubbing his cheek and looking up at Pete, eyes full of anger and hurt. “The fuck? I’m trying to help!”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your help,” Pete bites back. “Just leave me the fuck alone!” He turns away.

He hears the soft voice behind him sigh. “Fine.”

It’s only as he walks away, toward the icy stroll home, that he spots the carved face of a pumpkin in the bar window. He pulls out his phone and glances at the date, almost choking on his shock as the time switches to 12:00 midnight, the date changing with it.  

Today is Halloween. It’s officially a year since Pete’s life fell apart.

**

Pete hadn’t even wanted to go to the party, was the thing. Neither had Patrick, although he insisted they had to anyway. Something about them looking bad and their manager insisting they put in an appearance or whatever. Pete wanted to stop at home, give kids candy, watch dumb horror movies and cuddle with Patrick until it turned into something even more intimate. Was that really so bad? He wouldn’t know anyone at the party besides his band, except a couple of journalists he hated and musicians he tolerated.

It was weird, a few years back he had no problem enjoying himself at some dumb fancy Halloween party. Now though? The prospect was more than a little draining. Fuck, he was getting old.

Ten minutes before they were due to pick up Andy and Joe, Patrick was in the bedroom, fastening a head band of two flashing horns onto his head. He made for an extremely attractive devil.

A smile flushed his face as he turned and saw Pete in the doorway. “I’ll be honest – Edgar Allen Poe never looked hotter,” he said. Pete grinned back, going over to pull at the tie of Patrick’s red suit.

To be honest, the fake raven he’d stuck to his shoulder was kind of annoying, and the moustache was itchy as hell. He’d threatened to grow a real one for this party, but then Patrick had basically held sex hostage until he realised what a bad idea that was. Still, this moustache didn’t look too bad.  

Patrick leaned into Pete, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss. Pete hummed softly and let his lips roam across Patrick’s skin. “Think of what we could be doing if we stayed in here,” he murmured against the curve of Patrick’s neck. One of his hands twined around Patrick’s fingers while the other curved around the small of his back. “Just think.”     

“Pete…” Patrick muttered. “We can’t.” 

Pete only pressed deeper kisses into his boyfriend’s jaw. He looked over at the bag of Halloween shit Patrick had been going through. “Put those fangs in,” he said, smiling. “You know I’m fucking delicious.”

Patrick chucked, moving to touch their foreheads together, hand on the curve of Pete’s ass. “First off, the devil doesn’t have fangs. And second, those things are plastic, I don’t think they’ll work the way you want.”

“Be creative.” Pete grinned. “A blood sucking devil? Terrifying. And hot.” He looked into the riptide eyes he loved so much and went for one more plea. “Let’s stay.”

“I want to,” said Patrick softly, and Pete briefly felt hope blossom. “But we promised.” Pete sighed, pulling away and turning toward the dresser. “Besides…” Patrick’s voice was too casual. “Maybe this is good chance to… you know, like, tell people.”

It was a good job Pete was facing away so Patrick couldn’t see him wince. He still wouldn’t shut up about that. “Tell journalists?” Pete asked flatly, staring at the photograph on their dresser. It was of him and Patrick at Joe’s wedding a few years back, grinning together in suits at something just beyond the camera. The happy couple, perhaps. Pete couldn’t remember what they were looking at; all he could recall was the feeling of Patrick’s hand soft on his shoulder.

“Not journalists.” Patrick bristled. “Or… I don’t know, not just journalists. I just think we should get it out there and stop hiding. It’d be good.”

“Why?” Pete sighed, and he turned to take Patrick’s hand gently in his own. “C’mon, dude… we don’t need that shit. What we have now is good.”

Patrick pulled his hand away, frowning. “Why are you so fucking ashamed of me?” he asked, sounding more than a little hurt. Then he shook his head, as though regretting the way those words had come out.

Pete felt it like a fucking kick to the gut. “I’m not…” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand again, desperate for eye contact but getting none. “Patrick, c’mon, I’d never be _ashamed_ of you, Jesus.”

“That’s what it feels like,” murmured Patrick, glancing up at Pete and pulling his hand back yet again. “I just want our friends to know we’re together.”

“Yeah, and the minute that happens, the fucks in the magazines find out too. Everyone. We get nothing for us. And you’re the one who always wanted privacy.” The eyes, the flashes, the constant fucking tweets and malicious rumours and digs; it had destroyed his damn marriage. It was never him or Ashlee, it was _them_. They ruined everything he had. He couldn’t let them destroy this, _this_ , what he had with Patrick, it was too good, too special. It was perfect. They’d tear Patrick apart. They’d tear everything they had apart. No way.

This was theirs. It was _his_. No one else’s.

“What about Joe and Andy?” Patrick asked desperately. “They wouldn’t tell anyone. They already know I’m pretty much living here, I bet they know I spend almost every night here.”

“All it’d take is slipping it to one person,” said Pete, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t mean to, but they would. It has to be _us_. Just us. You can’t let them all ruin this!”

“Pete, for fuck’s sake…”

Patrick sighed, raking a hand through his blond hair and knocking his horns a little in the process. He wasn’t wearing his hat for the party, of course. Pete liked that; it made him less recognisable. Not that he and Patrick would be _doing_ anything of course, they couldn’t, but… just in case.

Patrick’s eyes were blazing, he was clearly trying and failing to hide his fury. “You— We’re gonna have to tell _someone_ _eventually_.”

Pete shook his head, reaching for Patrick’s cheek. It was slapped away harshly. “No,” he said. “We don’t.”

Patrick stared at Pete for a moment, eyes flashing, lips a tight line. He moved his gaze away and stalked toward the door. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”

**

The slam of the door is a blessing as Pete shudders into his house and wanders drunkenly into his kitchen. He’s not drunk enough to sleep yet and knows he wouldn’t be able to if he tried, not without the Ambien anyway. And he doesn’t like taking Ambien, it makes the nightmares worse.

He grabs the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet and takes a swig, steadying himself against the kitchen counter. It burns his insides and claws at his throat in just the way he wants.

He has a sudden, violent urge – not for the first time over the last twelve months – to grab the bottle of bleach from under the sink and add it to the bottle. He doesn’t. He’s not sure how much comfort he should take in the fact that he’s somehow more afraid of dying than he is of this endless agony that won’t ever disappear.

He takes a step toward the living room, plans for drinking himself into unconsciousness on the sofa already set. The kitchen blurs, spins, and he trips over a pair of shoes that aren’t his. They’re Patrick’s shoes, abandoned where he left them, just like everything else Patrick kept in this house. Pete crumbles to the floor with the bottle held above his head – the only thing left he cares to save.

He hits the floor on his back and hears a crack. Staring up at the ceiling without seeing, the back of his head aches dully. Pain, physical pain, is an almost pleasant relief. He imagines that’s close to what this is, anyway. He’s forgotten what anything “pleasant” feels like.

The bottle is still safe in his hands and he tries to drink where he lies, spluttering as the drink pours the wrong way down his throat as well as down his chin. He chokes, coughing and heaving against the kitchen tiles and half disappointed when the whiskey burning his windpipe doesn’t drown him.

Once he’s breathing easy again, Pete lets his cheek rest against the cold, hard floor. The aching hole he’s constantly trying to escape is all consuming and ravenous. If he squints, he can make out printed photographs on the fridge; hat, glasses, grinning faces. He closes his eyes and makes a wish to any entity that might hear him. 

Then he hears the distant twang of guitar strings.

This is not new. Pete has heard this before. Pete has heard the guitar in his dreams, his day dreams, in the form of other people’s distant conversations and convoluted songs that aren’t quite right on the radio.

What is new is the closeness, the rawness, the way it doesn’t stop and bring him back to reality after a few short seconds. No, it keeps going, a gentle tune of strings Pete can vaguely recognise but not really recall.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, listening to the guitar sounds and knowing who the owner must be while also knowing that it’s impossible. It’s long enough for the shadows around him to change, for his arm to grow uncomfortable from being lain on so long. He feels distant from himself, closer to the twanging song that hasn’t stopped or changed. Like his body has stopped being his own.

Pete moves, kicks his leg out, just to prove he can, and the guitar playing still doesn’t cease. This is very… odd. Pete had forgotten what it was like to feel anything close to surprise.  

He gets slowly to his feet, legs shaking, holding the neck of the bottle of whiskey tightly. The sound comes from the living room, and not knowing what else to do, Pete follows it. 

He drops the bottle.

Patrick is sitting on the sofa, plucking the strings of his guitar— the guitar that Pete had always left, growing in dust, in the corner of the room. He has a concentrated frown on his face, tongue resting lightly against his top lip. He’s playing something Pete recognises, but can’t place, something mournful, something quiet, something Pete doesn’t want to hear.   

Pete is not, cannot be, standing and watching this. He’s dreaming. He hit his head when he fell and now he’s bleeding out all over the white kitchen tiles. He’s dying, he’s dead. 

Patrick stops, stills, and looks up. He’s wearing the same red suit he was wearing the last time Pete saw him. His eyes have recognition, softness, something that’s almost understanding. He frowns.

Pete makes a noise that might be a sob, might be a cry for help, might be a laugh.

Patrick doesn’t seem to have heard. His gaze falls to the bottle still spilling whiskey at Pete’s feet. “Are you gonna pick that up?”

Pete passes out.

**

Joe and Andy could probably tell something was off immediately. Pete had no doubt that the air was different in the car, layered with tension and anger and unsaid things. Pete felt like he was playing a game with Patrick, but he didn’t know the rules and was made to feel like he’d been cheating at it. He wasn’t, Patrick was the one being unreasonable. Their bandmates may well have known something was amiss, but they didn’t say anything as they both climbed into the back of the car. Andy was some sort of skeleton. Joe was… Pete had no idea what the fuck Joe was supposed to be.  

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he asked, looking at him through the rear-view mirror, hands steady on the steering wheel. Besides sporting an oversized hoodie he’d usually never be caught dead in, Joe didn’t look any different.

“Guess it’s not obvious yet, hold on,” Joe reached for his bag and pulled out a trucker hat and a yellow marker pen. He shoved the hat on his head and began scribbling the side of his cheeks with the pen, drawing on a pair of poor looking sideburns. “There… we are.”

Patrick glanced back at Joe, scowling. “That looks terrible.”

“Actually, it’s awesome,” said Joe immediately. “Andy was gonna match, but he decided to go as a boring asshole instead.”

“Get a better wig next time,” Andy replied without looking up from his phone.

“I found that thing in Marie’s parents’ garage, how was I supposed to know it was real animal hair? I mean, it was perfect.”

“How was he going to match?” asked Pete, slowing to a standstill by a STOP sign.

“Uh. By going as you, dumbass,” said Joe, as if it was obvious. “I had the terrible wig and eyeliner planned and everything. It was pretty amazing.”

Pete wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t shocked to hear that he and Patrick were automatically a _match_ in Halloween costume terms. They were a match for Halloween costumes. They were a match for writing music. They were a match for being bestfriends. It wasn’t like Pete hadn’t written about as much in the lyrics he gave to Patrick. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t told the internet as much for years. It didn’t shock him.  

But it did bother him now. It did make something crawl at his insides. It did make him remember Ashlee saying (yelling), “What left is mine, Pete?” It did make him remember Patrick saying, “What about Joe and Andy?” and, “they already know I’m pretty much living here.” Because it reminded him that it wouldn’t take much for people to take that next (correct) leap.

“That’s a stupid idea, Joe,” he muttered, eyes straight ahead. It shouldn’t matter – he knew it shouldn’t fucking matter, but he couldn’t stop obsessing over it. Pete and Patrick being PeteandPatrick to their friends should have been a good thing. But it wasn’t – it was how it started. He was going to lose Patrick over it. Someone like Patrick would never be with Pete when faced with the attention and the constant eyes that would come with them becoming PeteandPatrick for real to the entire fucking world. It couldn’t. Patrick would leave him. It was going to _ruin them_ —

“Pete,” Patrick’s voice barked suddenly beside him, “Slow down, dude, Jesus.”

Pete blinked, glancing at the speedometer. He was going twenty above the speed limit; he hadn’t even realised. He pulled his foot from the accelerator some.

“You trying to kill us all?” Patrick asked, anger colouring his words; he sounded like Ashlee used to before the divorce. “I was _telling_ you to slow down, and you were on another planet.”

Pete bristled. “Fuck off, man, we’re fine.” He didn’t see but felt Joe and Andy both look between the two of them for a moment, obviously trying to piece what was wrong without saying anything. Pete ignored them.

“Hey, so Patrick,” began Joe after a short moment of silence, no doubt aiming to lighten the mood. “Isn’t that, uh— that Kerrang chick gonna be there tonight, that one from that interview last year? You gonna try and score? She had a thing for you.”

Pete’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he willed himself not to look over at either of them. Everything in him was tensing in an entirely different way now.

“Oh— no, I don’t— I dunno,” Patrick muttered. Pete couldn’t help it – he risked a glance at him. Patrick was looking down at his pants, picking at a loose thread.

“You… could if you wanted,” said Andy reasonably.

“Yeah, you haven’t been with anyone in forever, man. Live a little.” That was Joe, the fucking idiot with the terrible fucking ideas.

Patrick was quiet for a moment.

“He doesn’t want anyone like that, guys, come on,” Pete said, trying to keep his voice easy, casual, friendly. “Right, ‘Trick? You’re good.”

Patrick made a quiet noise, then murmured, “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t I, Pete?”

Pete felt something tighten in his chest. He stared ahead at the road. “Because,” he said.

“No, it’s like Joe said,” Patrick’s voice grew louder. “I haven’t been with anyone in forever, right? I’m single.”

“Oh, hey, dude,” Joe was misreading Patrick’s now obvious anger. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way—”

“No, man, I know,” said Patrick, and he was staring at Pete, pointing daggers, Pete could feel it, “I’m single, right? Why the fuck shouldn’t I enjoy myself?”

“Uh… yeah,” said Joe, still not understanding. “Okay.”

Pete was gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt. He pulled into the parking lot of the fancy club the party was at. “Do whatever the fuck you want, man.”

He got out of the car. He refused to look at Patrick.

**

For the last twelve months, when Pete has woken up it has been with the usual aching pressing realisation of what life is now. It’s with the crushing reality of a life without the man he loves. The brief, cutthroat second or two of confusion before everything comes back to both crush him and open him up, the wound soaking blood all over his life.

When he wakes up this time though, it’s to two beautiful blue eyes and confusion that does not go away. He’s lying on his sofa, his head pounding. From drink? From injury? From his brain’s own useless cracked nature? Pete’s not sure. Patrick is staring at him. Pete decides his memory is shit, because he looks almost too perfect, his face pale, unmarked, beautiful, like porcelain. Pete has remembered him wrong.

“You fainted,” Patrick informs him, smiling like this is normal. “How are you feeling, dude? Are you okay?”

“No,” says Pete honestly, trying to breathe and feeling the air choke him.

“You deserve that,” Patrick says, so quiet Pete’s not sure he’s heard right. He doesn’t understand; those words feel wrong. Everything’s wrong. “Hey, calm down. Breath, man.”

Pete can’t breathe properly, is pretty sure he never will do ever again. He sits up, pulling himself away from the shape of Patrick. Everything is vivid, everything is real.

“Pete,” says Patrick softly. “Was it another dream?”

Was it? Is it? Is he dreaming?

“I don’t…” Pete can’t work anything out. He’s been avoiding thinking about everything and anything for so long. “I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” says Patrick quietly. “It’s going to be okay. That wasn’t real.”

It wasn’t real. Except where it was. Except where it is. Patrick moves his hand, pressing fingers to Pete’s cheek. It’s soft, gentle, light, and all consuming. It’s real. It feels real. He feels real. “Patrick,” he says softly.

“I’m here,” Patrick says. He smiles. “Did you like my song? It was for you.”

Pete breaks. “Patrick,” he chokes in half a breath, reaching for him and feeling himself crumble. “Patrick.” He clings to him like a child, head resting against Patrick’s chest, hands fisting at his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Patrick strokes the back of Pete’s head absently. “I know.”

Pete doesn’t know how long they stay like that, Pete clinging and crying, Patrick quiet and soothing. Eventually his breathing evens out, his tears dry up, and he stops mumbling half formed apologies and broken murmurs of Patrick’s name. He keeps his eyes open, because when they’re closed it almost feels like Patrick isn’t here at all.

Patrick’s fingers brush through Pete’s hair until they grip tightly and pull. Pete sucks in a breath at the unexpected pain, feeling it jolt him into awareness.

“Patrick…” he murmurs, frowning at him.

Patrick pulls away enough to meet Pete’s eyes. His lips brush softly against Pete’s; the kiss is soft, but his mouth is somehow hot and cold at the same time. Something’s off about it, different, Pete can’t place it. His memory is bad.   

Patrick stands up straight. “Come with me,” he says quietly.

**

They didn’t stay at the party long. That was always the plan, of course, but the reasons turned out to be a bit different.

Pete’s eyes didn’t stray from Patrick, even while it seemed Patrick strayed from Pete. Pete watched as Joe dragged him through a crowd of drunken witches, ghosts and vampires, over to a red-haired woman dressed as a nurse. Even with the dumb outfit (nurses weren’t even scary, c’mon), Pete still recognised her from the brief interview the four of them had done last year. She’d been flirting with Patrick, subtly; he and Pete had gone back and forth between laughing and arguing about it later, between bedsheets.

Pete watched, and it wasn’t long before he saw Patrick shake his head, step back and disappear into the crowd. Joe was calling after him; the nurse just looked confused.  

Pete pushed his way through the throng of people, smiling as politely as he could at the back pats and casually thrown greetings. At some point he lost the raven perched on his shoulder. He didn’t look back for it, noticing Patrick sat on a bench in the corner of the room, something amber in the glass in his hand.

Pete sat beside him. The music was quieter here. “Changed your mind about hooking up with that nurse, huh.” His voice sounded ugly, even to him.

“Pete.” Patrick closed his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah,” Pete muttered, because he did know. Patrick wouldn’t _cheat_. That wasn’t how he’d leave.

“I just… I’m just tired. I’m tired of hiding from our friends. I don’t understand why we can’t just tell them. They’ll get it and they won’t tell anyone.” Patrick looked up at him, and he did look tired, Pete saw that.

“We…” Pete didn’t know how to tell him. He didn’t know how to tell Patrick that he was so terrified of losing this, at times it left him almost paralysed at night, thinking about it. He didn’t know how to tell Patrick how much the thought of going through with him what he went through with Ashlee would break him completely. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, lose Patrick. “We can’t.”

Patrick looked away, staring straight ahead at the crowd of masked strangers. His jaw was set. “You want to keep this our dirty little secret forever?”

Pete thought of lying. But what would be the point? “Yes.”

Patrick stood up, knocking back his whiskey. He was unsteady, eyes glassy as he stared at Pete. “I wish you’d just… just tell me why. What are you so afraid of?”

Pete looked away. “I told you already.”

“Right,” said Patrick. “Privacy. Except I accepted that I couldn’t have everything for myself anymore way before we started dating each other. I mean, Jesus, it’s not like we’re inviting them to bed with us, I just want—”

“You don’t get it—” Pete bit out, getting to his feet.

“No, I guess I don’t.” Patrick was walking away before Pete even realised what was happening, and Patrick should have come as a ninja instead of a devil, because Pete had barely taken two steps before he completely lost him.

The following two hours were a blur of bad party music, bad party food being shoved in his face, and desperately looking for Patrick. Each time he got to him, Pete hovered, unsure whether or not trying to talk now would even be a good idea. He could see him getting steadily drunker as the minutes went by.

By the time he was on his sixth or seventh drink, Patrick simply fell into Pete’s arms when he approached, lips twitching upward. “Are we going home?” he asked. “Or maybe I should just kiss you here in the middle of the party?”

Pete’s alarm skyrocketed. He pushed Patrick away, not enough for him to stumble, but enough that Patrick’s mouth was no longer right in front of him, inviting him in right there in the middle of the dancefloor. 

Patrick was swaying on the spot and looking up at Pete as though he were a stranger. “Right,” he said, and he sounded almost sober.  

“Are you sure you should be driving?” Andy asked fifteen minutes later, hovering by the hood of the car. He was usually the designated driver of the group after a night like this.

“I’m fine, I only had one drink,” Pete muttered between grit teeth, and it wasn’t like Andy could argue – Pete knew Andy hadn’t seen much of him at all at the party. Most of the night for him had been spent looking for Patrick and trying to avoid being pulled into conversation with people he couldn’t care less about. He’d had more than one drink, yeah, but it was fine. It wasn’t like he was drunk, not like Patrick or Joe were. He’d driven after more before.   

Andy must have believed his lie in any case because he got into the backseat behind Patrick without further comment.

“It’s so fucking early,” Joe complained as Pete started the car. Pete had all but dragged him from where he was laughing hysterically with a couple of ugly as fuck clowns who seemed to find Joe’s Patrick costume the height of comedy. 

“Blame Pete for that,” said Patrick from the passenger side at the front, slurring slightly and staring out of the window.

Joe did. “What gives, Pete?” 

“I’m doing us all a favour,” Pete muttered. “That party sucked.”

“That and he thought I was too drunk to keep a secret,” said Patrick, head lolling back to address the backseat. “Right, Pete? Even our best friends are untrustworthy.”

“Wait, what?” Joe was buzzed, but apparently still paying enough attention to catch that. Pete didn’t look back, but he could tell Andy was listening intently.

“Nothing,” Pete barked back. “Patrick's just stupid drunk. He’s talking shit.”

Patrick snorted. “What’s going to happen, Pete? If we tell them?" His tone was full of drunk anger now; the kind of anger that Pete recalled from the rare writing sessions that turned into drinking sessions, after too many beers with their pizza and too much ego where both of them were readily convinced that they were right about a particular key change or lyric.

"Uh... at this point, I'd rather you didn't," Joe said, unsure.

Pete stared straight ahead, barely seeing the road over his own worst-case scenario. He was tense, and fucking fuming now. Patrick didn't have a fucking clue. It'd never happened to him before solely because he kept out of the limelight. He hadn't watched his own marriage fall apart around him because he and his wife couldn't go outside together without a camera and a recorder shoved in front of them. His hands shook involuntarily against the steering wheel; his foot pushed harder against the accelerator.

Patrick sighed, and when his voice came, it was softer, quieter, enough so that Joe and Andy might not hear. "Pete... What do you think would happen if everyone knew? So, we wouldn’t have as much privacy – that’s fine, I’m really not as—”

"Can't you just let it go?" Pete interrupted sharply, still too aware of the company in the back, quiet or not. He felt pent up, a rubber band pulled too far back.

Patrick let out a frustrated groan. "No – please, just tell me, for fuck's sake--"

“You’ll fucking leave me,” Pete bit back sharply, something in him giving as he says it out loud. He turned to Patrick, watching blue eyes widen. “You’ll leave because that’s what happens when those vultures get their grasp on something like this, okay? So just— Just stop.”

The slight pause here was jarring, but it didn’t last long; Andy yelled something at Pete from the back, but Pete could only hear and see Patrick, who said, fury hidden in his confusion, “You think I’d—? Are you insane? If I fucking left you, it wouldn’t be—”

But Pete didn’t – doesn’t, wouldn’t, won’t – find out what Patrick was about to say; Patrick was cut off by the crunch of metal on metal, the sting of smashing bone, of breaking glass and skidding tires.

(Pete could blame the distraction – the fire in Patrick’s eyes and fury in the curve of his mouth; he could blame his hands that shook in anger against the steering wheel; he could blame Andy, who barked, “Slow down,” from the backseat in a way that made Pete want to do the opposite.

He could blame a lot of things for the way he blazed past the STOP sign too fast, not looking.)

Somebody was screaming a cracked and broken chorus of words that made no sense. Somebody closer was moaning in confusion and pain; it was only as Pete blinked blurred eyes open, seeing glass and grey and red, that he realised it was his own voice. His chest heaved, his head ached, his stomach cramped. He was close to throwing up.

He blinked again and turned his head, looking for a semblance of something he could fix.  

In the seat next to him, Patrick was cushioned, pushed, crushed against the deformed curve of the car door that had moved into the interior of the car like play-doh.

Patrick’s head hung against his seat belt, a gash open and dripping blood on his forehead. His horns were askew. His eyes were wide and staring and unblinking.

Somebody was saying Pete’s name. It was Joe’s voice. Pete kept his eyes on Patrick’s face. He waited for Patrick to blink in comprehension. Joe cried out behind him. “Are you— Fuck, fucking, I can’t… _Andy_ ,” a moan of despair, “Please… Pete— _Pete!_ Is Patrick—? Are you—?” Joe’s voice was too high and croaking and didn’t make any sense, Pete couldn’t work it out. He was still waiting for Patrick to blink.  

He heard, “ambulance”; he heard a noise that might have been a cry; he heard Joe talking, but not to him. There was movement and noise beside him. Joe had moved, unbelted himself and come between the seats in front.

Joe was touching Patrick and crying. Patrick’s eyes still wouldn’t blink; Pete didn’t understand why.

His hands shook.

**

Pete is following Patrick to the door before he registers what he’s being asked to do. He follows Patrick, like always. It was only when he stopped following that he lost everything, after all. The cold outside is biting, and Pete has a dull distant regret that he didn’t grab a coat on his way out.

They walk quietly. It’s still dark, but there’s some light in the distance, the promise of sunrise close in the air.

“Patrick?” Pete whispers, walking fast to keep up. Patrick knows exactly where he’s going, that’s obvious from his long, determined strides.  

“You’re not in prison,” says Patrick conversationally. As though all of this is quite normal. Maybe it is. Pete feels like he lost all sense of normalcy at the same time he lost the soft breaths he used to hear every night from the man he’s not sure is in front of him or not.

He clenches his fists, the cold biting them pink already. “I know,” he whispers, recalling police cells, police reports, defence lawyers, angry men in suits, mishandled evidence. “The case fell apart. I got… lucky.” So he was told. The word is bitter and ugly. Recent memory reminds Pete that he has never been less lucky in his life.

“Lucky,” repeats Patrick, sounding amused. There’s something in his tone, something hidden that Pete’s not sure he likes. It makes the guilt claw at him, sticky and choking.

“Where are we going?” Pete asks desperately. He’s growing more and more convinced that he’s dreaming. Patrick is beginning to seem more and more caricature than lover.

Patrick doesn’t answer. They keep walking. And then Pete realises exactly where they’re going, the sign to the cemetery where Pete knows several people are buried growing closer. Patrick doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, he barrels on through the high gates, down the path past the dozens and dozens of graves that surround them.

Pete doesn’t want to be here anymore, but he can’t seem to stop following Patrick through the graveyard. It’s like magnetism now.

Suddenly, Patrick stops. Pete stops with him, just behind him, and peaks around Patrick’s shoulder at the grave he’s stopped in front of. He wants to run, but instead he reads the name and lets it jolt him like an electric shock.

ANDREW JOHN HURLEY

Pete feels something tighten his throat, like he’s being strangled. He hasn’t been to this graveyard since two coffins were lowered into the ground and dozens of people in black wept for them. This grave is covered in flowers. Somebody has placed two drumsticks in the shape of an X by the stone. Pete thinks of what bones lie below and wants to throw up.

Patrick pauses at it for several long seconds before moving away. Pete hesitates, not wanting to stay but not wanting to go to where he knows Patrick is taking him. In the end, he doesn’t have a choice. Like caught on an invisible leash, he’s pulled back into Patrick’s orbit.

It’s not far. Patrick reaches back and grabs Pete hand. His hand is very cold, even colder than Pete’s, and Pete feels frozen in the early morning air. Patrick’s hands are ice. They stop in front of a grave a few down from Andy’s. Pete sees the name through the dozens of flowers that litter the area around the stone.

PATRICK MARTIN STUMP

Pete’s not sure when he fell to his knees, but he’s not surprised to find himself there, kneeling on the grave, the frozen dirt cold and uncomfortable against his sodden jeans. It’s second nature, in a way, to fall to his knees at Patrick’s feet.

The Patrick that led him here has crouched beside him, and Pete looks over at his too perfect face. Pete sees – so quick he’s not sure he hasn’t imagined it – the flash of scarlet in golden ocean eyes.

He pulls his hand away from Patrick’s, still cold, body shaking. “What… are you?” Patrick only smiles, pulling away from him.

He feels rather than sees Patrick move behind him, a cold hand resting softly on his shoulder. “Let’s stay,” Patrick says softly into the shell of his ear, a plea. Pete scratches the dirt under him and feels closer to Patrick than he has done in a year. He could never say no.

He turns, but nobody is behind him anymore. He can’t see Patrick anywhere now – panic flares fast.

“Patrick!” he shouts, voice hoarse, dry.  

 _Please come back,_ he thinks. _I’ll stay if you come back._

Patrick doesn’t come back, but Pete can’t move until he does. He claws at the frozen earth with quivering hands until his fingers turn numb and his nails bleed. He wants to look away from the words etched on the gravestone but he’s unable to tear his eyes from it. _Beloved son, brother, friend, boyfriend._ The numbness settles but the pain takes a while to disappear.    

Until it does. Soon, Pete’s hands stop shaking. They are as rigid, still and frozen blue as the rest of him. He kneels, stiff, against the hard, whitened dirt of the grave where Patrick lies as rotted flesh and bone six feet below. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween.
> 
> comment and kudos are great.
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](http://1833outboy.tumblr.com/post/179626419026/til-your-heart-goes-numb-1833outboy-phancon) if you want and hit me up on tumblr @1833outboy


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